Found Wanting

by Robert Goddard

  The boys eventually outgrew that fascination. They naturally saw less of him after they left for Cambridge in the autumn of 1975, though no return to the Island was complete without at least one visit to the old man. He never accused them of neglecting him. Somewhere, Eusden had a photograph taken by Gemma of the three of them – Richard, Marty and Clem – standing together on the Parade in Cowes, with the QE2 visible out to sea, cruising up the Solent towards Southampton. Clem had just passed ninety then, but looked as spry as ever.

  Eusden remembered borrowing a photographic history of the Island from Newport Library once in an attempt to imagine the Cowes of Clem’s youth. The town had a pier then; women wore long dresses and wide-brimmed hats; the men boaters and high-collared jackets with waistcoats. The sun seemed always to be shining, pennants fluttering from the massed yachts on regatta days, watched by parasol-twirling ladies. Ironically, Eusden would need an equivalent volume for more recent decades to re-imagine his own youth now: the ice-cream days of summer, when he and Marty took buses to distant parts of the Island, supplied with sandwiches and orange squash by their mothers, free to roam and explore. Alum Bay, Tennyson Down, Blackgang Chine, Culver Cliff: the places were all still there; but the times were gone, beyond recall.

  Over the years, Eusden’s visits to the Island had become fewer and farther between. His sister Judith still lived there. She and her husband ran a garden centre at Rookley. Physically, his mother was still there too, vegetating in a nursing home at Seaview; mentally, though, she had left long since. Judith occasionally rebuked him for neglecting his nephew and niece. He found it impossible to explain to her just how painful it was for him to return to the sights and sounds of his childhood and adolescence. ‘When you went off to Cambridge, I thought you’d be back for Christmas,’ she said to him in a soulful moment after their father’s funeral. ‘But you know what, Richard? You never did come back. Not really.’

  When Clem Hewitson died, in the summer of 1983, aged ninety-six, Marty was in the Middle East. He did not attend the funeral. Neither did Eusden. He had often regretted his absence, though he doubted Clem would have held it against him. The old man was as hard to offend as he was toforget.

  As the train drew out of Waterloo station, Eusden gazed up at the attaché case lodged in the luggage rack above his head. The mere sight of those initials – CEH – had plunged him into helpless reminiscence. This had made him wonder if Marty wanted whatever the case contained to reconcile himself to his past in some way; to make peace with the times and the places – and the people – he had effectively fled from. It was hard to conceive of any other reason why he should be so eager to retrieve it. But there might be such a reason. Eusden realized that. And in two and a half hours, he would find out whether there was or not.

  BRUXELLES

  FIVE

  The Belgian countryside and the outskirts of Brussels had looked grey and bleak through the train window. But there was nothing to be seen of the outside world on the concourse of Bruxelles-Midi station. Eusden was in a man-made realm of platform buttresses and garishly lit retail units: fast food and quick fashion amidst the tidal swash of travellers. There was nothing to be seen of Marty either, at the spot where he had told Gemma he would be waiting: Sam’s Café, adjacent to the escalator down from Eurostar Arrivals. This did not worry Eusden unduly. The train had got in ahead of schedule and Marty had never been on time for anything in his life. Eusden changed a tenner into euros at the Western Union next to the café, bought himself a coffee and sat down at one of the tables out front.

  Ten minutes later, he was beginning to grow a little anxious. Marty was not a well man. It was easy to imagine some disaster had overtaken him. Eusden decided to check the arrivals screen for trains from Amsterdam.

  He had risen from his chair with that in mind when a figure appeared at his table from inside the café: a tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged man in a dark suit and an elegant bottle-green overcoat. He was lantern-jawed and sharp-nosed, with grey quiffed hair and pale blue eyes, sparkling behind gold-framed spectacles. He stood, decisively it seemed, in Eusden’s path.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said in a clipped Mitteleuropa accent. ‘You are Richard Eusden?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I join you?’ He set the cup of coffee he was carrying down on the table and extended a hand. ‘I am Werner Straub.’ The edges of his mouth curled in the faintest of smiles. ‘A friend of Marty.’

  ‘Really?’

  They shook. Straub’s grip was hard and cold.

  ‘Yes. Shall we sit?’

  They sat. Straub’s glance fell instantly on the attaché case, propped next to Eusden’s briefcase in the chair next to him. The clamour of the PA and the gabble of passing travellers seemed suddenly distant, as if an invisible bubble had formed round the table.

  ‘Perhaps you are surprised that I know who you are,’ said Straub, his voice quiet but distinct. ‘Marty told me that his ex-wife would come.’

  ‘There was a change of plan.’

  ‘I know. She phoned him… after the change.’

  ‘Ah. Right.’ This was a surprise. Gemma had not said she meant to warn Marty of the substitution. Eusden would have thought her keen to avoid explaining herself.

  ‘Then Marty phoned me. I was already on my way, you understand.’

  ‘Where is Marty?’

  ‘Cologne. He travelled there yesterday from Amsterdam. To meet with me.’

  ‘And your connection with him is…’

  ‘We are business partners as well as friends.’ Straub sipped his coffee. ‘Not such old friends as you and he, of course.’

  Eusden’s surprise was turning to confusion. Straub looked about as unlike someone who would befriend Marty – or indeed do business with him – as it was possible to imagine. ‘Why did Marty send you rather than come himself?’

  ‘Sadly, he is unwell. A bad headache. You know about the… tumour?’

  ‘Yes. I do.’

  ‘So unfortunate.’ Another sip of coffee. ‘You must have been distressed to hear of it.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘He is resting at the hotel. He will be better by tomorrow, I think. The headaches… come and go. It is a pity you will not see him. I know he is sorry about that.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘But it cannot be helped. You have brought… the article he wants?’

  ‘Yes.’ Eusden lifted the attaché case on to his lap, feeling strangely glad of the excuse to take hold of it. ‘Here it is.’

  Straub studied the initials for a moment. ‘CEH. His grandfather, no?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Good. So, I take it from here. And you are free to go home.’ Straub smiled and extended a hand, seemingly expecting Eusden to surrender the case there and then. But Eusden made no move. Straub’s smile took on an edge of puzzlement as he slowly withdrew his hand. ‘You are… unhappy about something, Richard? I may call you Richard, I hope. I am Werner. We are both friends of Marty. We are both… obliging him.’

  ‘Look, I don’t want to appear suspicious, but… I don’t know you.’

  ‘No. Of course not. I understand. And there is no hurry. My train is not for an hour. We can talk. We can get to know each other.’ Straub snapped off a piece of the small biscuit that accompanied his coffee and ate it, regarding Eusden with apparently amiable curiosity as he did so. Then he flicked a crumb from his fingers and continued: ‘You are Marty’s oldest friend. I am probably his newest. You can tell me about his past. I can tell you about his present.’

  ‘So tell me.’

  ‘He is one of those people who… adds enjoyment to other people’s lives. I first met him on a matter of business. I liked him from the start. I became his friend. I will miss him if the doctors are right and he dies as soon as they say he will.’

  ‘Do you think they might not be right?’

  ‘No. But… there may be hope. That is where our business comes in. Do you know what is in the case, Richard?’<
br />
  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Yet you knew his grandfather.’

  ‘And I’ve still no idea. Certainly none about how something belonging to a man who died more than twenty years ago could help Marty now.’

  ‘It is, as usual in this world, a matter of money.’ Straub leant forward, lowering his voice still further. ‘There is a doctor in Switzerland who may be able to relieve Marty’s condition. Not actually to cure him, you understand, but to give him more time. A year or two, rather than a few months. He runs a special clinic in Lausanne. It is very exclusive. Very expensive. Marty could not afford to go there.’

  ‘How expensive do you mean?’

  ‘Several hundred thousand euros.’ Straub shrugged. ‘Doctors used to bleed their patients. Now they bleed their patients’ bank accounts. Progress, no?’

  ‘Are you saying… the contents of this case are worth several hundred thousand euros?’

  ‘To the right buyer, yes. And I have found such a buyer. That is my profession. I broker deals in the collectables market. I negotiated harder for Marty than I would for most clients. And we have a result. Marty can go to Lausanne as soon as I deliver the article and take payment. I am waiving my commission, Richard. We must get the best treatment for our friend. Do you not agree?’

  ‘Of course.’ Eusden looked down at the case, its leather scuffed, its metal catches pinpricked with rust. ‘It’s just… hard to believe Clem owned anything so valuable.’

  ‘It is worth what someone is willing to pay for it.’

  ‘And what is it, Werner?’ Eusden shaped a smile. ‘What is the article?’

  Straub grimaced. ‘I wish I could answer your question. But Marty said… you should not be told.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Another grimace. ‘I think that amounts to the same question. You should ask Marty, not me. I am only his… representative.’

  ‘Why don’t I do just that? Give me his number and I’ll call him now.’

  ‘He said he was going to take a pill and sleep off the headache. We should not disturb him. He will have switched off his phone anyway.’

  ‘You won’t give me his number?’

  ‘It would be pointless, Richard. He would not answer.’

  ‘That leaves me in a difficult situation, Werner. I’ve never met you before. From what you tell me, this case means a lot to Marty. You’re effectively asking me to hand it over to a stranger with no guarantee it’ll ever get where it’s supposed to go.’

  ‘You do not trust me.’ Straub frowned in disappointment. ‘That distresses me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but there it is.’ Eusden tried to look and sound calm, though he did not feel it. Straub might be telling the truth. Or he might not be. Eusden had so little hard information to go on that it was impossible for him to judge. He was sure of only one thing: as matters stood, he could not surrender the case to Straub. Their encounter was going to have to end without a handover. Fortunately, they were in a very public place. Eusden was free to stand up and walk away with the case any time he chose.

  ‘Perhaps you should call Marty after all.’

  ‘Perhaps I should.’

  ‘Allow me.’ Straub slipped a phone out of his pocket, tapped in a number and passed it to Eusden.

  There were several rings, then an automated voice announcing the call could not be taken. Eusden did not leave a message. He looked across at Straub. ‘Voicemail.’

  ‘I did warn you.’

  ‘Give me the number of the hotel.’

  ‘He may have blocked incoming calls.’

  ‘I’ll risk it.’

  ‘Very well.’ Straub recited the number. Eusden tapped it in.

  The answer was prompt. ‘Hotel Ernst.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to one of your guests,’ said Eusden. ‘Marty Hewitson.’

  ‘Your name, please.’

  ‘Richard Eusden.’

  ‘Hold on, please.’

  ‘They’re putting me through,’ Eusden said to Straub, whose face betrayed not the slightest reaction.

  A delay followed. Then the receptionist was back on the line. ‘There is no answer from Mr Hewitson’s room.’

  ‘Is he in?’

  ‘I do not know. Do you wish to leave a message?’

  ‘Yes. Ask him to call me.’ Eusden dictated his mobile number. ‘You’ve got that?’

  The receptionist read it back and added: ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Eusden thought for a second, then said, ‘Do you have any rooms for tonight?’

  ‘Tonight? I’ll check.’ A moment later: ‘Yes, we do.’

  ‘Good.’ There was a reaction now from Straub, though not much of one. He raised his eyebrows about a quarter of an inch. ‘I’d like to book a room.’

  The booking was swiftly accomplished. Eusden ended the call and handed the phone back to Straub.

  ‘You’re coming with me to Cologne, Richard?’ he said.

  ‘What else can I do? Without being able to speak to Marty.’

  ‘The pills he takes are rather strong. I suppose the phone ringing would not be enough to wake him.’

  ‘Either that or he’s feeling a lot better and has gone for a stroll.’

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘Well, we’ll find out when we get there, won’t we?’

  ‘We will, yes.’ Straub smiled. ‘And it will be a pleasure to have your company on the train, of course.’ His smile broadened. ‘So, that is settled.’

  ‘Yes.’ Settled at a price, Eusden thought. The train fare to Cologne; a €250 room at the Ernst; another day’s leave at zero notice: Marty was suddenly having an impact on his life it was hard not to resent.

  ‘I think I will have another coffee,’ said Straub. ‘Can I get you one?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Excuse me, then.’

  He stood up and headed for the counter, empty cup in hand. As he took his place in the queue, Eusden slipped his phone out of his pocket and dialled Gemma’s number.

  ‘Hello.’ Eusden swore under his breath. It was Monica who had answered. At least he assumed it was Monica, though they had never actually spoken before. She had just the gratingly chirpy voice he would have imagined.

  ‘Is Gemma there?’

  ‘Is that Richard?’

  ‘Yes.’ Another silent obscenity.

  ‘Hi. I’m Monica.’

  ‘Of course. Hello. Look-’

  ‘Gemma’s taking a shower. London’s so dirty, isn’t it? Well, maybe you don’t notice, living there all the time, but-’

  ‘Did she speak to Marty earlier?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Did she speak to Marty earlier?’

  ‘I don’t know, Richard.’ Eusden wondered if her use of his name was intended to be as irritating as he found it. ‘Is it important?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to get her to call you back.’

  ‘OK. She’s got my number.’ Eusden glanced into the café to check on Straub’s progress. He had reached the head of the queue. It looked like his coffee was already being prepared. And, while he waited, Straub was also making a phone call. ‘What’s the slimy bastard up to?’ Eusden murmured.

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Monica.

  ‘Nothing. Sorry.’ Having Gemma call him on the train, with Straub staring, sphinxlike, at him from the seat opposite, suddenly seemed like a bad idea. ‘On second thoughts, tell Gemma I’ll call her.’

  ‘When would that be? Only, we’re going to a five o’clock showing at the cinema. Have you seen Notes on a Scandal, Richard?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, never mind. I just mean it might be a better idea if you leave phoning again until you get home.’

  ‘Until I get home.’ Straub had ended his phone call and was paying for his coffee. ‘Yeah, that’s a great idea.’

  KÖLN

  SIX

  Avec Thalys, découvrez le plaisir de voyager à votre rythm
e en Europe. So the blurb declared in the timetable that Eusden had received along with his ticket to Cologne. But pleasure and rhythm were a long way from his grasp. Reassurance and logic, which he would have settled for, were also nowhere to be found. As the high-speed Thalys bulleted them east through the late afternoon and early evening, he struggled to get the measure of his companion – without success.

  Extracting information from Werner Straub was as easy as grabbing an eel. The man had a gift for turning every question back on the questioner. There was little doubt in Eusden’s mind by the time their journey ended that Straub had learnt far more than he had revealed, particularly about Clem Hewitson, despite Eusden’s efforts to be as reticent as possible.

  Nor had a message left on his phone by Gemma done anything to relieve his difficulty. Guessing she might ignore his request to wait for him to call her, he had switched it to voicemail and run a check during a visit to the loo. Sure enough, she had been in touch, though not to much purpose.

  ‘What’s going on, Richard? Monica said you sounded anxious. Sorry I didn’t tell you I was going to call Marty and warn him you’d be there instead of me. I actually only did it on the spur of the moment. Anyway, I didn’t get to speak to him. But he must have told you that himself. I suppose he did get my message, didn’t he? Of course he did. Otherwise you wouldn’t know about it. You must be on your way back by now. Call me when you get in.’

  It was a bone-cold evening in Cologne. They exited the station on to a wind-swept piazza beneath the soaring, spired mass of the cathedral. According to Straub, the Hotel Ernst was only a short walk away and for that Eusden was grateful.

  It looked as swanky a place as its room rates implied. The glitter of the lobby suggested there would be plentiful creature comforts to compensate him for the inconvenience of being there. Marty was obviously not in the business of saving his pennies – or his cents. But then, as Eusden sombrely reminded himself, his friend did not have much of a future he needed to worry about.